


the breaks that belonged to you

by outruntheavalanche



Series: The Boys of Summer [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - High School, Brothers, Gen, Jealousy, Sibling Rivalry, Triple Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 05:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outruntheavalanche/pseuds/outruntheavalanche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dean’s taking grounders at short—Bobby’s lobbing balls high into the air and swatting them down with his bat at him—when he spots a group of scouts in wide-brimmed straw hats lining one of the chain-link fences.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	the breaks that belonged to you

**Author's Note:**

> This is a ~follow-up~ to [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/821479) (and the two make up a pretty loose series). I mostly just wrote this so I had a finished fic for the month of July.
> 
> Mark Holtz was the Texas Rangers’ TV play-by-play guy. He passed away in 1997.
> 
> Title from “Sob Story,” by Minor Threat.
> 
> Yes, the scouts are supposed to be the angels.

Dean’s taking grounders at short—Bobby’s lobbing balls high into the air and swatting them down with his bat at him—when he spots a group of scouts in wide-brimmed straw hats lining one of the chain-link fences. For brief flash, Dean thinks they’re there to watch _him_ , before he spots the radar guns and clipboards tucked under their arms. They don’t bring those big, bulky radar guns to watch non-prospect shortstops field grounders.

_They’re there for Sam_ , Dean thinks, pausing to push the brim of his soaked baseball cap off his forehead to wipe away sweat.

“Drill ain’t over, Winchester,” Bobby barks at him, and Dean glances at his coach. 

Bobby stands there with one hand on his hip, the other wrapped around the barrel of his bat. The bucket of baseballs sits between Bobby’s cleats, momentarily forgotten.

“The scouts,” Dean starts.

“—ain’t here for you,” Bobby finishes, bluntly. “Get back to work. Three errors last game’s unacceptable.” He bends down with a groan and grabs one of the baseballs.

“They’re here for Sam, aren’t they,” Dean says.

Bobby lobs the ball in the air and whacks it toward Dean, one-handedly. “He’s startin’ tonight,” Bobby says.

Dean dives to his right— _two steps and a dive_ he imagines hearing Mark Holtz yell—and snags the grounder in his glove, skidding across the dirt. Dean bounces to one knee and digs the ball out, faking a throw to an imaginary first baseman.

He hears murmurs then and he whips his head around; a few of the scouts that haven’t departed to watch Sam’s warmups are watching him, murmuring amongst themselves. One of them, a young guy with black hair and piercing blue eyes that doesn’t look much older than Dean, points at Dean and gestures to something on his clipboard.

Dean ducks his head and hides his smile from Bobby. They might not have come to see him, but they’ve noticed him now.


End file.
